


Lunatic Love

by DarkObsessions



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Humor, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Love/Hate, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, joker pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkObsessions/pseuds/DarkObsessions
Summary: Harley's stormed out on the Joker again, ran off to lick her wounds and lament her woes. He's fine. Really, he is. He's not having trouble sleeping and he can totally find all his things. His socks are... mismatched on purpose! Awh, hell, he oughtta just kill her and be done with all this nonsense... Right, but after he brings her home. Yeah, he's sure can just kill her later...





	Lunatic Love

 

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own anything from the DC Universe. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this, nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

 

_Trust all the things_  
_I tell you are true_  
_Dress up in your best_  
_So I can be proud of you_

_And never believe I won't turn on you_  
_And never believe I do this for you_

_you're leading me on again,_  
_And I find it,_  
_Yeah I like it_  
_And I'm reeling in awe for sure,_  
_Now I know it was given to me,_  
_Given to me, given to me_

**_Given – By Seether_  
**

 

      He was fine, really. Completely content, comfortable even. He didn’t need her, he knew he didn’t. After all, he’d gone on just fine without her for countless years before she’d weaselled her way into his life to hover consistently and endlessly in his proximity. Hadn’t he?

Of course he had. He’d been perfectly alright, absolutely stellar.

So, if she wanted to storm out of here in a huff, swearing she never wanted to see his 'ugly mug' again, then so be it. He didn’t need her.

He didn’t.

She was the one who needed him. She was the one who was going to come crawling back, just like she always did. She couldn’t stay away, never for long anyways. She’d come back.

And when she did, he’d tell her where she could shove all those blubbering tear-streaked apologies. He’d kick her to the curb once and for all. Ah, to be free of all her cloying affections, her obsessive manhandling, coddling and persistent nymphomania... That’d show her. It’d teach her not to stick her nose where it didn’t belong, not to start what she wasn’t willing to finish. If she couldn't handle running with the big dogs, then she should've just stayed under the porch.

He’d show her exactly who it was needed who.

With a huff, he crossed his arms petulantly and threw himself down on their ruined and mottled sofa. Her precious babies had chewed the pathetic piece of furniture half to hell, and what patches were still left intact had been long ago soiled with blood, food, and various other fluids.

He searched briefly for the TV remote, but gave up when he realized it wasn’t in immediate sight and that he wasn’t likely to uncover it with all the mess she’d so carelessly left him to stagnate in.

He glared sourly at the blank TV screen from across the room. It was fine. There probably wasn’t anything worth watching on anyhow. He’d just make her find the thing when she came back.

She was definitely coming back.

Chewing bitterly at the inside of his bottom lip, he took in the disaster that was their living room. Well, if a cluster of beat up furniture and a stolen television stuffed into the backroom of an abandoned and derelict train station even counted as a living room. He supposed it did.

There was broken glass scattered over just about every square inch of visible flooring, but it was concentrated more heavily on the far right of the room – exactly where he'd been standing when she'd started throwing china, and every other breakable projectile in her immediate vicinity. There were feathers mixed haphazardly into the mess as well. They'd come from the couch pillow that had burst open as he’d tried to yank it from her grasp. That was after she'd attempted to clobber him with it. There were splatters of blood speckled across the dirty hardwood and he wasn’t entirely sure who's it was; whether it was his or hers. Though ultimately, he supposed it didn't matter.

He recalled that she’d thrown a punch which had caught him square in the nose just as he’d managed to jerk the mangled pillow away from her. He’d retaliated by busting her lip and she’d stumbled back into their dingy little coffee table, which had overturned as she'd tripped over it. He’d only just begun to cackle– the picture of her tangled around their busted coffee table and seething, had been just too much for him –when she'd let loose a furious and strangled sort of sound. Something somewhere between an embittered wail and a savage scream.

Suddenly, she’d been up off the floor and hurtling towards him, taking him down in a hastily executed football tackle. If he hadn’t been so busy trying to recapture the breath she'd knocked out of him while simultaneously keeping her blows from landing, he might have congratulated her. The girl could tackle. She could throw a mean punch too, almost as well as she could take a beating.

He oughtta know, seeing as he'd been the one to school her on those learnings in the first place.

She was a quick learner, always had been. It was one of the things he liked best about her– not that he really liked much; she was a pain in his ass on the best of days. With that thought, he went back to trying to recall what it was she'd been so pissed about.

He couldn’t remember what had started it, she was always set off by the strangest things. Really. Who cared if he tossed her to the G.C.P.D every once in a while? She wanted to be useful, didn’t she? Serving as a distraction for his getaway was perfectly useful, she should be happy. Besides, whenever that happened, she only got thrown back in Arkham, and it wasn’t as if he'd ever let her rot there for very long. He’d busted her out enough times, hadn’t he? And even if he did decide to leave her there, that place was hardly Alcatraz. He was sure she was perfectly capable of busting herself out if she’d really wanted to. She wasn’t half as stupid as she let on. He'd never have bothered with her if she had been.

But he was certain that wasn’t why she’d been angry. He hadn’t sent her to back to Arkham in months, maybe even years (who knew? Time was a fickle and irrelevant mistress).

Regardless, the fact was that he hadn’t sent her to the loony bin recently and she’d seemed perfectly happy with him only the day before. At least, he was pretty sure it had been the day before. Either way, he was still at a loss for what had sent her over the deep end.

Which was irritating, because with Harley, he _always_ knew _._ He prided himself on knowing, he knew everything about her. Not knowing was irksome. She wasn’t supposed to be a mystery, she wasn’t supposed to distract him. She was meant to be an accessory, a prop, something that made his life easier, more convenient. Not this… Whatever this was.

With a growl, he lurched up from the sofa and began pacing, only vaguely aware of the broken glass crunching under his bare feet as he slipped back into his reverie.

He could recollect that from her position above him, straddling his waist with those delightful little gymyst’s thighs, she’d been screeching badly strung together insults and throwing punches. He'd managed to block most of them, catching only a couple before he'd tossed her off and reversed their positions. He remembered being both thrilled and furious as she spat fire and raked nails down the side of his neck.  
  
He always had enjoyed riling her up and watching her detonate. He'd often key her up just to set her loose; whether it be on Gotham or himself, it was always entertaining. She was an extension of him, after all, and he always revelled in the destruction she wrought in his name. Besides, she was so pretty when she let go, when she abandoned all restraint to ride the heady high that violence always brought. She'd taken to his teachings with such a fervour, like she really _understood_. She didn't, of course. No one really did, but she always tried. _Really_ tried. And that was more than he could say of most.

But that was beside the point.

She'd been gone far too long already and her unsanctioned absence had begun to chafe. It wasn't that he actually needed her, per se, it was more that she'd just grown convenient. She took care of the menial and mundane necessities of everyday life so that he could concentrate on what was really important. Ie: plotting his brilliant schemes, terrorizing Gotham and nudging Bats into the game– the usual.

But he'd be damned if he was going to go chasing after her like some kind of infatuated puppy. That was probably just what she wanted. And he'd never been fond of just handing her what she wanted, not unless it was on his terms. Not unless he wanted something to.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was just a little over a week before he finally snapped. He'd shot, stabbed or pushed out of a moving vehicle at least three of his lackeys in the span of a week. That was approximately two more than was per usual, and for far less reason. Not that he always needed a reason– sometimes a little spontaneous death could be a real knee slapper– but this was getting a little ridiculous even for him. Who would do all the grunt work if he killed all the grunts? Certainly not he himself. As it was, said lackeys had been making themselves sparse around the hideout. And even when they did make appearances, he couldn't help but notice there was always a distinct lack of service with a smile.

Where was Harley when you needed her? That gal knew how to wear a shiner with a smile. Those pearly whites could put a guy's eyes out!

By this point he'd decided he didn't give a damn what had set her off, and he'd stopped trying to recall the details of it. He could barely even remember the fight itself anymore. He was convinced her reasoning had been grounded in something trite and unimportant anyhow, so it didn't matter.

What did matter, however, was the the wretched state she'd left him in.

He hadn't realized just how much he'd come to depend on that little brat until she'd actually left. Though admittedly, he hadn't noticed straight away. At first he'd had himself convinced he was perfectly content without her. At least until she came to her senses, anyways.

It was only after the days had begun to drag on and he'd grown more and more agitated and uncomfortable that he'd noticed something was wrong.

Suddenly, he'd had to come to terms with the fact that his bed was empty and he hadn't managed a decent night's sleep in as many days as she'd been gone. His laundry wasn't getting done. The dishes were piling up. And for the life of him, he couldn't find a damn thing when he needed it. He'd been wearing mismatched socks for almost a week, for Christ's sake.

The woman had spoiled him, turned him into a Goddamned helpless invalid. However, he'd happily swallow and choke to death on his own tongue before ever admitting that out loud. Especially not to her. He'd never give her the satisfaction. She'd enjoy that far too much. It would give her ideas. Ideas he didn't need to contemplate right now. Or ever.

So, after much self defamation and disgust, he'd come to a very disturbing but necessary conclusion.

He needed the bitch back. If only to rectify this reprehensible situation. Maybe he'd even kill her, rid himself of her disease. Would that clear up the disquieting prickle that crawled so incessantly across his skin and throughout his synapses in her absence? Would it eradicate the nauseating desire to have her close enough to choke, to reassure himself that he possessed her now just as wholly as he ever had? Could it make him stop seeing the shadow of her passing at the corners of his vision, tricking him into thinking she was flitting about in the background as usual?

He figured there was a decent chance it might. After all, what use was wanting after something that didn’t exist anymore, right? He'd get over it, he was sure. Yeah, that sounded right. Okay, so he'd deal with the possibility of that scenario once he got his hands on her again. Preferably right around that skinny neck of hers... Ugh, the fact that that image brought to mind more than just violence was problematic. Something needed to be done. Immediately.

It wasn't that he missed her, because he didn't miss her. It wasn't that, and it couldn’t be that. It wasn't even possible because he was above something so trite and commonplace as the simple pining for another person's presence. It was just that... Well, things were simpler when she was around, less... Itchy. Yeah, that was all it was. It was just easier when she was around. He was sure of it. That was all it was.

Though he knew she wouldn't see it that way. He didn't need to give her anymore daffy ideas about his feelings and her worth to him. He'd have to be sure to quash any of those silly theories as quickly as they rose.

And so, there were a few things he was sure she didn't need to know. In the interest of preventing any nutty notions in regard to her indispensability.

She didn't need to know he slept better with the warmth of her curled against his side. She didn't need to know that he'd actually become accustomed to her incessant chatter in the background, and that concentrating without it had become more arduous than enduring the chatter itself had ever been. She didn't need to know that he'd come to expect and depend on all that annoying coddling and eager service. And, oh, possibly the most loathsome... She certainly didn't need to know that he'd even sort of acclimatized to her nymphomania... Christ, how disgusting was that? How sickeningly pedestrian and unimaginative.

Fuck it. She didn't need to know a Goddamned thing, she just needed to come home. He'd punish her for tricking him into this wretched state of co-dependence later. And oh, what a glorious punishment that would be.

But first, he needed to get her back.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It didn't take him long to figure out where she'd gone. His girl had the most preposterous affinity toward that cumbersome redheaded weed woman. It was always _Red said this_ , and _Red did that._ If he didn't know any better, he'd think his little Harley-Baby had a crush. But seeing as he did know better, he could see that strange relationship for what it really was; a strictly platonic crutch.

See, Harley had a tendency to gravitate toward powerful people, people who didn't give a damn about the rules or who enforced them. People who weren't afraid to give her a good push now and again, make her feel alive. She might not even be sure why, but she needed that, craved it. Isley fit that description– not as well as he did, of course, but well enough. She was essentially just a substitute for him while they were apart.

Now, that wasn't to say he didn't believe Harley cared about the leafy little witch, he was well aware of the fact that she was fond of her. They were the best of gal pals, and he might even go as far as to say that Harley loved her. But when it came down to it, if Harley were given a choice between him and Isley, Isley wouldn't stand a chance.

So, whenever he and Harls had one of their little spats, she'd go storming off to lick her wounds and lament her woes at the feet of that flower rider. To make matters worse, said flower rider had a serious hate on for yours truly. She was convinced that he was _abusing_ Harley. Abuse! Really?! Ha! How she managed to miss the fact that Harley was an outright masochist and certified nutso who was quite happily desperately love with him, was beyond him. He knew Harley had pointed it out to her enough times, you'd think she'd have caught on by now.

But no, that uppity little recyclopath was dead set on doing her damnedest to slander his good name. She was constantly trying to convince his biggest admirer to shift her admiration. If it weren’t for all the fuss and blubbering he'd inevitably have had to put up with from Harley, he'd have offed that green-thumbed egomaniac ages ago. As it stood however, she served to keep his gal occupied whenever he had better things to do than cater to one of her tantrums or entertain her.

He scoffed as he clambered up the side of a tree which happened to be strategically placed right beside a home of which he was was about to attempt scaling. It wasn't much to look at, just an old front gabled and red bricked affair that looked a little worse for wear and resided on the very edges of the sketchier side of Gotham. Nothing special or particularly eye catching about it.

Except that it just so happened to be Pamela Isley's current abode.

Muttering bitter curses as he inched across a branch that extended towards what he knew to be the guest room window, he reflected further on what a colossal pain in the ass that walking shrubbery really was. Honestly! Just look at where he was, at what he was doing. How dignified could a guy really look while clambering around in a tree attempting a B and E?

Well, actually, he probably still looked pretty good. He made everything look good, really. He was the Joker! But still, that wasn't the point. It was the principle of the matter! Who was she to try and commandeer his things? Surely it hadn't been his Harley's idea. She was probably beside herself by how. Having been away from him so long, she'd be absolutely starved just for the simple sight of him, half mad with longing! Well, madder than usual anyways.

He was willing to bet the reason for all Isley's unjustified hostility towards him was really just simple jealousy. He wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to discover that her vines were all secretly up in a twist over his Harley. She was probably looking to spread her buds and pollinate all over his poor little moll.

He shuddered. Ugh, the imagery.

Well, good ol' Pammy would just have to unclench and find a new meat bag to fertilize. Like hell he was gonna share his! Harley was coming home. Tonight. Right now.

When he extended himself forward and set about trying to open the window, he made the most inconvenient discovery. It was locked.

Just like both doors and the kitchen window had been.

Loosing patience with the absurdity of this whole situation, he decided stealth was no longer a relevant priority, and promptly put his fist through the window. The glass shattered with a crash, its fragmented pieces tinkling noisily to the ground below and sprinkling themselves along the guest room floor just inside the window.

Unaffected by the now bloody state of his hand, he clambered in through the broken window and ignored the sting in both his arm and thigh when they got hung up on some jagged fragments still lodged along the window frame. Finally inside, he took a second to orient himself.

Wow. And he'd thought Harley was a bad housekeeper. It was humid as all hell in here and he couldn't walk two feet without encountering an excess of some flora or another. Most of which appeared rather bizarre and somewhat disconcerting, like they might be more alive and animate than any plant really should be. You couldn't even see the damn walls in here for all the creeping greenery she had making itself at home.

He was eyeing a particularly large and unfriendly looking Venus Flytrap as he brushed stray bits of glass from the arms and shoulders of his coat, when he heard the quick little pitter-patter of familiar feet. Ascending the stairs, by the sound of it.

He straightened, an itchy sort of excitement thrumming in his bones with the thought of seeing her again, of watching her reaction to his sudden appearance. Oh, how he'd missed this. He was almost grinning when Harley barrelled into the open doorway brandishing a... Was that a fucking umbrella? What the hell did she think she was gonna do with that?

He was about to launch into a lecture about how umbrellas were at not effective weapons, and then scold her for having obviously spent too much time with the Penguin. But he was stopped dead in his tracks by the plethora of emotion that flitted across her face in the split second it took her to realize who was standing in her interim bedroom.

Ah, it was just as glorious as he'd anticipated. He'd been right about her all along.

He watched as recognition flashed through those big blue peepers, an elated sort of excitement lighting up her features as she instinctively began lowering the umbrella at the sight of him. She almost called for him. He saw her sharp intake of breath, caught the way her lips pursed to form the beginning of her favourite pet name for him. Then, just as quickly, she seemed to remember she was supposed to be angry with him and her face twisted into something so disgustingly adorable that it made his teeth ache. It was an expression that got caught somewhere between a frown and pout, but mostly just made her look childish and far more innocent that she actually was.

The undersized, pink ducky pj’s and pigtails didn't really help with that image either. She looked like something out of one of those cheesy teen porno flicks. She looked ridiculous.

Which is why he hated himself even more for still feeling that vexatious little tugging sensation down low in his gut, like the haughty little bimbo was yanking on a line hooked firmly through his insides. Who the hell did she think she was? He'd never been bothered with such trivial impulses before her, and it irked him to no end that she held a power of this nature over him at all. Which was why he so often denied her. Why, even when he did indulge her cravings, he made sure it was always on his own terms. According to his rules.

Though admittedly, there was a certain level of depravity to the current situation that did appeal to him. If only because there was something deliciously degenerate and wickedly perverse about a fully grown, sexualized woman wearing children's pyjama's and looking at him the way that she was. He could play it up if he really wanted to, lean hard on the whole Daddy/Baby dynamic they had going on and distract her into forgiveness with her own libido. He'd done it enough times before. It could work.

Funnily enough, that whole dynamic had actually started out as a joke, as a means of making her uncomfortable by referring to himself as her 'Daddy' because he delighted in watching her squirm. And it had worked, for a while. But then she'd started using it herself, looking up at him with big, watery doe eyes and whimpering things like 'Please Daddy'.

And he discovered, very quickly and much to his chagrin, that the way she could mewl those words did terrible things to him. Terrible and painfully ordinary things.

He stood there, silently glaring at the ludicrous spectacle of her and more than mildly affronted by the run-of-the-mill banality of his train of thought. He didn't have time for these distractions, he was on a mission here! Using her libido against her was officially off the table!

The high tenor of her voice knocked him from his thoughts then, and he watched her toss the umbrella aside to cross her arms over her chest as she spoke. “What are ya doin' here, Mistah J?” She enquired obstinately.

Never mind the fact that they both knew exactly why he was there.

He decided on a more candied approach. She tended to get downright gelatinous whenever he laid it on thick, his girl always did love a good smattering of cornball affection. He flipped it on like a switch, his face taking on an expression of cloying cordiality as he slipped into motion and started towards her. He sidestepped various shrubbery and shoots as he spoke, his words dripping with honeyed tones of affection. “Why, I'm here to take you home, Pooh.”

He watched her struggle with the urge to move toward him, relished in her desire to be near him even while she was determined to remain angry with him.

She chewed on her bottom lip, frowning as she glanced from his face to the broken window over his shoulder. “Red ain't gonna be too happy 'bout that...” She said quietly before absently adding, “S'all caught up in the moss...”

He grinned, unwilling and disinterested in trying to hide his distaste for the Missus's bestest bosom buddy. “Aaand where exactly _is_ our favourite little Pammy-Whammy, hm?” He cooed, casually winding the end of one of her pigtails around his finger as he loomed over her.

After what appeared to be considerable effort on her part not to grin and simply lean into him, she swatted his hand away and shrugged. “She went out. Said somethin' 'bout wanting to scope out some chemical waste dump.”

His grin widened and he opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. “So, ya gonna apologize or what?” She was glaring up at him expectantly, arms cross tightly over her chest and her lips pressed into a firm line. The little crinkle between her brow was almost cute. Almost.

His cordial expression had evaporated, vanished like a ghost on the wind and was replaced by something dangerous and blank. “What?” The word croaked out of him, dry and hard.

Unfazed, she arched a brow, a stubborn set to her jaw “You heard me, Puddin'. Lets hear it.”

She had to be joking. He didn't even know what this little fit was about and now he was supposed to apologize? He ground his teeth, weighing his options. He considered just saying it, just giving her the words so she'd shut up and go back to worshipping the ground he walked on. He knew she wanted to, he could see it in her eyes. In the way her gaze kept raking over him, flitting down toward his mouth whenever she thought it might not be noticeable.

And yet, there she was, standing firm. Dedicated to being even more mule headed than usual.

Perhaps he could simply slap some sense into her, get her to see how silly all of this was and how badly she just needed to come home. He considered this only briefly because if the look in her eyes was any indication, it wouldn't help him in her current mood. They'd both end up little more than bloodied, furious and unsatisfied.

He studied her face, searching for any indication as to whatever it was he'd done to piss her off so badly, but he came up empty. His face must have shown it.

Her eyes bugged, fury clouding her face as she let out a screech. “Seriously?! Ya don't even know what you did, do you?” There was heavy accusation in her tone, an edge of keening in her voice.

He gave her a bewildered look, and shrugged.

Her eyes may as well have caught flame. “Ya just left me there!” Harley spat, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Abandoned me! I could have _died_!” She was near hysterical now, chest heaving and eyes wild with fury.

He hated to admit it, but he couldn't help but notice how Goddamned beautiful she was in that moment. So savagely feral. Primitively wrought with unbridled passion, and just a little broken. If he was being honest, it was just the way he liked her. But he could do without that smart mouth.

He rolled his eyes, increasingly irritated by the distinct lack immediate resolution he'd been expecting. He still wasn't entirely sure what she was talking about or when it had happened, but he trusted that it had. He just didn't understand why she was so worked up about it. Things had clearly turned out, seeing as neither one of them had wound up dead or incarcerated.

“And yet here you are, alive and well.” He countered casually.

Her hands balled into fists, her nails leaving small and bloodied crescents against her palms. “No thanks to you!” She raged, her voice high and shrill and laden with a heat he couldn't help but bitterly admire.

His eyes narrowed, his voice sharp and low as his expression sobered and darkened. “Careful, Harl...” He warned perilously.

He rationalized at first that there must still be at least a small part of her brain still levelheaded enough to consider heeding his warning. She'd know enough to recognize the whisperings of danger and pain, of blood and fire and madness. He'd watched that understanding light her eyes before, cause her to reassess the situation and attempt to curb it in her favour. He'd always enjoyed that about her. She was smart. Resourceful.

But right now he could see her muscles screaming for action, crying out heedlessly for violent retribution. And he could see now, that riding that wave of wild emotion, she wouldn't be bringing herself to give two shits about the consequences. He'd seen that in her before as well, and he'd punished her for it. Even if watching her did have his blood singing, his pride swelling.

“How could ya do that to me?!” She hissed into his face. “How could ya do that to someone you're supposed to love?”

There it was again, that sickening little word. The girl was relentless, hopelessly determined to grate away on his very last nerve. He'd given her everything. He'd set her free, killed for her, maimed for her, made her a Goddamned queen. Christ, he'd even let her lay claim the space beside him, a privilege he'd granted none before her.

Was that not enough? Could she not simply be content?

Apparently not, because she was still demanding more. She was still unsatisfied, still esurient, always trying to pry those three little words out of him.

“You're fine. Nothing happened.” He snapped sharply, quickly loosing patience with her insolence. He'd already warned her once and she'd chosen to ignore it.

“But ya couldn't have known it wouldn't!” She shrieked. “What if he'd killed me? What then?!”

Something cold and furiously indignant lit in his eyes with her words. He surged forward, moving too quickly, too suddenly. Before she'd time to process the movement he'd slammed her back against the wall. Her head snapped back, smacking harshly against that twining tendrils of climbing ivy as his hand closed around her throat. His thigh wedged between her legs as his body pinned hers firmly against the wall behind her.

They were almost nose to nose. He could feel her breath on her face, knew she saw the violence and resentment burning in his eyes, but she didn't bother to struggle. Her hands just fisted in the front of his shirt, her jaw set with stubborn determination.

She still wanted an answer, was convinced she needed to know.

He caught the a lacing of fear in her eyes, but predominantly he saw the defiance, the outrage. He wasn't entirely sure whether he found this brazen little rebellion to be appealing or irritating. Perhaps it was both.

Her eyes demanded a response. He knew what she was asking, and he wasn't too keen on giving her an answer. He didn't want her thinking she had any power. He considered lying to her; telling her it wouldn't have made any difference to him. After all, she was only a plaything, and playthings got discarded. But as was so often the case with this mad little minx, he found himself somewhat inclined to humour her, to grant her more leeway than she actually deserved.

All things considered, he should have killed her years ago. But instead, he supposed he'd found himself... for lack of a better word, somewhat attached. How disgusting. He'd come here so convinced he wasn't going to bend, and now... Ugh.

His lip twitched up in an irritated growl as he craned his neck toward his shoulder, his eyes rolling in his head before closing for the briefest of seconds. Tone exasperated and matter-of-fact, he answered flatly.“I'd have killed him...” He ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully, waited another beat, then added a single word. “Slow.”

She frowned, her features depicting something akin to skepticism and confusion. He only continued to glare at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to clue in on some elaborate and clever joke.

She considered his statement more carefully, began scanning his face for some inkling of truth, a reason to believe him. A touch of hope flitted through her face as she sifted through the churning abyss she believed lay open in his eyes. There was something there, she knew there was. She could see it, she'd always seen it. But she still wanted him to say it, to reassure her that it wasn't all just some one-sided fantasy she'd dreamed up.

“Really?” She whispered quietly. Her tone held just an edge of desperation. “You'd kill the Batman?”

The Batman? She was worried ol' Batsy might have killed her? Hadn't she been paying attention? B-Man was a saint, the ultimate do-gooder. At worst, he'd have beaten her bloody, but murder? Nah, if the Dork Knight was ever gonna off somebody, it was damn well gonna be him.

But ah, well, maybe she knew something he didn't. He'd pry it out of her later.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes were still angry, his tone still deadly calm. And though not enough to entirely stifle the passage of air, his hand was still applying considerable pressure to her throat.

“I'd have peeled the skin from his bones... Made him watch while I fed the bits and pieces to your babies...” A ghost of a smile grazed his lips with the thought. He figured she'd appreciate the incorporation of her beloved hyenas into the metaphorical avenging of her metaphorical death.  
  
It probably wasn't true. He'd likely never kill the Batman, he was far too much fun to play with. So his statement to her was a lie, but the sentiment behind it was genuine. He'd have been pissed if she'd wound up dead. He might even have possibly missed the looney little tart. Not that he'd every really admit it, not even fully to himself.

But he'd still tell her what she needed to hear to make her stay. He didn't like not having her around. And ultimately, just like with Batman, if anybody was gonna snuff out his dizzy little dame, it was going to be him. He'd earned the right to that. She was his; body, heart, mind, and soul.

She looked like she might be thinking he appeared sincere – obviously still irritated by her insolence, but sincere nonetheless. She swallowed thickly, struggling to speak around the pressure of his fingers. “Ya mean that?” She whispered raspily. “You'd really have skinned him for me?”

It was mad, totally psychotic and excessive. But he knew she wouldn't be able to help seeing a twisted sort of romance to it, a demented logic. A logic he shared.

“Course I would've.” He snapped, mildly irritated by her lack of confidence in him. He readjusted his grip on her, shifted so he could plaster his body more fluidly against hers. His thigh rode just a little higher, pressed a little firmer against her core. The harshness in his voice vanished as quickly as it had come, suddenly turning low and guttural.“You're mine, aren't you?” He asked. His tone dared her to disagree, and his thumb moved to smear her lipstick as it traced across her her bottom lip.

She must have known it wasn't a rhetorical question, because she nodded. And he watched as a calm warmth spread through her belly, as she accepted the meaning of this. She knew. She just needed a little reminding now and again, some reassurance after a rough patch.

Now she had it.

Without another word, she hooked one of her legs up around his hip, pressing herself into the semi-stiffness that he so often bitterly sported when in conjunction with her close proximity. He saw it as a distraction, but Harley revelled in it. In her eyes, it was simply another example of the penchant she knew he held for her. No one else did that to him. Before her, sex had never been a priority of his, and she knew it.

He wasn't a man driven by carnality, he viewed such things as the base desires of the common folk, and he was anything but common. However, Harley had complicated things for him in that regard. Now, he persistently found himself caught up in periodic states of craving.

And he knew that her knowing she'd been the one to sway him to this, pleased her to no end. Which set his teeth on edge.

She slid her hands up his chest and around behind his neck to fist tightly in the hair at the base of his skull. Her eyes were hooded, silently requesting permission to take things further despite the grip he still had around her throat. And despite his irritation with her, he almost purred at that, the way she turned to puddy in his hands even while her continued existence remained perilously uncertain.

Such a _good_ girl.

Ignoring the tightness in his trousers, he pulled away from her, shucking her lightly on the chin in a manner that could almost be called affectionate. “Later.” He promised, his earlier irritation with her mostly all but forgotten. Now that they'd made up, he just wanted to do was get home before the plant bitch came back. He turned away from Harley and towards the nearest exit, expecting her to follow.

Halfway towards the stairwell a shrill and distinctly Harleyesque sound of giddy excitement rang out behind him. About a second later she took a flying leap onto his back, wrapping her arms and legs around his neck and torso like some kind of wriggly little primate. He was forced to grab hold of her thighs just to keep them both from toppling over as she giggled girlishly in his ear.

He fought not to grin as he rolled his eyes and began moving toward the stairs, giving her thighs a harsh little squeeze as he moved. Her breath caught and she tightened her thighs around him, lowering her mouth to the shell of his ear. Her breath was hot against his neck and he could feel her smiling as she breathed, “Vroom, vroom, Daddy...”

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

 


End file.
